


The Ballad of The White Wolf’s Missing Heart

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Ballads, Chapter 2 is just the ballad, Cute, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, For no other reason than I WANTED TO, Friends to Lovers, Geralt has one brain cell, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier has a few brain cells, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Social Awkwardness, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The immortality has no plot implications in this, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), which he ALSO doesn't use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Five times— not in order— which Jaskier notices that Geralt thinks he can’t feel, and one time he does something about it.Or, Jaskier tries to comfort his friend (love interest) in his own special way: by writing a ballad about wolves, witchers (Geralt), and their feelings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (mentioned), Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 35
Kudos: 269





	1. 5 + 1 Times

**1.**

Never has he ever, _ever_ , thought that Geralt doesn’t have feelings. Not even when he’s cold and tired and dirty, and they are standing on the top of a little corner of the world, and Geralt is saying— when his _best friend of the past twenty-two **fucking years**_ is saying, “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands, Jaskier.” If anything, this tirade _proves_ that he does have emotions.

And just… wow. Geralt may not speak often, or use a bow, but he really fucking knows how to choose his target, how to sharpen his words until they cut more deeply than even the best elven-archer’s arrows could. And when he does shoot, the witcher’s aim is true.

The White Wolf may be more snarl than bite, but when he bites— when he bites, he aims to kill.

Jaskier leaves Geralt sitting atop that cold, lonely mountain, and even as he _seethes_ and aches and **burns** with anger, he does not forget the sight of the defeated slump of the witcher’s shoulders. Broken-hearted. That’s what they both are.

**2.**

“And it was then that I realized: _this is what a crush is_ — Geralt? Tell me: who was your first crush?”

“Hmm… Didn’t have one.”

He blinks. _Well. That is some bullshit. **Everyone** has a first love. Or infatuation. Or crush_. “Come, Witcher, don’t be daft— there has to have been somebody, in all your long years of wandering the Continent. Someone who you’ve admired, or given more than a passing glance to— and if you say it’s _fucking Yennefer_ , I swear to all the gods, Witcher, I will—”

“Jaskier.”

He huffs, runs a hand through his hair. “Well. If you want me to shut up, dear Geralt, then you simply must answer my—”

“No one. There’s your answer, Bard.”

This gives him pause for a moment. _I’d have **sworn** that the idiot would name that blasted mage, if no one else. But this, this is—_ “Unexpected. Not even our _dear_ Yennefer?”

“No. Witchers don’t _feel_ , Jaskier.”

He blinks again, mouth falling open in dismay, disbelief, denial, disdain. Because surely, surely, even Geralt, master stoic, king of the emotionally disinclined, reigning champion of the conversationally clueless that he is, Geralt _cannot believe that he is incapable of feeling things_. “I’m sorry, come again? You were saying that you don’t have _feelings_?” Jaskier asks mildly. Maybe he misheard the witcher. Or misunderstood him— Geralt’s rusty conversational skills do lend themselves to creating confusion, after all.

This time Geralt blinks, the dimwitted bastard. “No, we don’t. That’s why— among other things— many find my kind… distasteful.”

Again, Jaskier is stripped of his verbosity, his wit, his very tongue it seems, by these frankly astounding words. There are _many_ things he could say about common folks’ mistrust of Geralt, of witchers in general, but then they’d be here for hours. And even Geralt, who, he has learned, can be remarkably patient (even with Jaskier, and his frequent rambling), would not have the patience for this particular long-winded rant. So instead, the bard, wisely, decides to focus again on Yennefer.

“Well then, why do you follow around that mage of yours like a lost puppy? You certainly don’t seem averse to feelings when you two are fighting, nor when you’re fu—”

“That’s different,” Geralt interrupts gruffly. And he doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed, damn him. “Even witchers have… needs.”

“‘Needs,”” Jaskier echoes faintly. _Melitele’s left tit. He doesn’t even think he feel things towards Yennefer. Fucking Yennefer!_ By the time the bard has reentered the real world, and decided to say something about this bullshit, Geralt, apparently, has determined that their conversation is over. He’s been silent too long, damn it, and now the witcher has diverted his attention back to his food and ale.

 _I **will** deal with this later_, Jaskier decides. _For the love of all that is good and holy— Geralt of Rivia will get it through his thick fucking skull that he has a heart that’s good for more than merely beating_.

**3.**

He decides to write a ballad. Well, not _a_ ballad, but _the_ ballad. A truly masterful, tear-jerker of ballad which will hopefully work just as well as _Toss a Coin_ seems to have. Only, this ballad is not about the greatness, or even goodness, of witchers (of Geralt) but, essentially, a ‘fuck you’ to all those old wives’ tales about how witchers (Geralt) cannot feel. It will be a ballad of persuasion, meant to inform the Continent’s populace, and Geralt himself, about how _yes, witchers do have feelings_.

Jaskier picks up a pen, hunches over his notebook one evening when his inspiration, and determination, are strong and squints at the blank page before him. It flickers in the dying firelight. Absently, the bard brushes away a few pesky rain drops. Then he begins to write:

Alas, all folk see are their cruel claws and gnashing teeth,  
which so carefully hide the heart beneath. Even if wolves  
cannot speak, they feel no differently than humans do;  
they still seek a mate who is warm, a place to sleep,  
food for their pups to eat. A life is a life is a life,  
and our species live it not quite as distinctly  
as the old folks would make you think.

_Yeah, that’s good. That’s **really** good. I may just have something here_.

**4.**

There are actual tears in the crowd’s eyes as he strums the concluding note. _Good_. As Jaskier takes his final bow— to, may he just state, raucous applause— he sweeps his gaze over the back of the room, and swiftly becomes alarmed. Geralt appears to be leaving. The bard leaps off the stage, offering a harried smile to the alarmed-looking people sitting at the first row of tables. “Fuck, Geralt, wait up!”

The absolute oaf does not slow down, not even when he reaches the inn/tavern’s door. Jaskier pants, muttering to himself, “That blasted man— I swear!” and speeds up. Curse the witcher for deciding to act like this when he’s breathless, and fresh from performing. Ugh.

Finally, when it becomes apparent that the bard is not going to be left behind (when has Jaskier **ever** let his witcher leave him behind?) Geralt stops. “Jaskier…” he begins.

“Geralt—” _But, gods, the witcher’s managed to steal even my thoughts_.

“I— do you… really believe all that? About me?” Geralt asks quietly.

Jaskier sucks in another breath. “I do. I really do.”

Geralt smiles shyly, and his eyes gleam with emotion. He takes a step towards the bard. Jaskier mirrors the witcher’s movements. “Do you mind if I—” Geralt cuts himself off.

He blinks. _Oh, gods, was he going to ask to—_ “Kiss me?”

Geralt cups the back of Jaskier’s head gently and fulfills his bard’s request.

**5.**

They run into each other on one of the Continent’s many back-water roads outside an equally-backwards, unimportant town. It’s been five months since the witcher’s explosion on that mountain top, and this meeting is quite unexpected.

Jaskier freezes when he sees those terribly familiar black armor-clad shoulders and white head— somehow, the other man hasn’t noticed him yet. It has been a long day on the road, a longer, _lonelier_ series of months, and he is tired. The bard has neither the desire, nor the energy, to deal with feral witchers this evening. The sun is nearly setting, and all he wishes he were focused on is finding a safe spot to spend the night in. Instead, he begins to think of the best way to slink past ~~his former best friend~~ Geralt.

Of course, like many of Jaskier’s other plans, this one doesn’t go smoothly.

As soon as he places one foot forward on the path, the witcher spins around. His gaze locks with Jaskier’s. The bard goes still again. The witcher doesn’t move. To a passerby, they probably look absurd.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says.

Jaskier blinks. An excuse, anything to get him out of this situation, sits caught between his lips. _Fuck, can’t leave now, because he said it. The witcher actually said it. And I—_ “Never thought you’d actually apologize, Geralt. Good to know you’ve begun to recognize that you **do** have feelings.” It’s a little harsh, and a _lot_ untrue (and cruel) but the bard figures he deserves this one barb before he gives in— like he always does (and always will)— and forgives his White Wolf.

The witcher swallows, and goes oddly stiff. “I- I… was wrong. Wrong to— say those things. They weren’t true. That’s all.”

Jaskier peers into suddenly-downcast yellow eyes. “And the bit about my singing?” he presses.

Geralt’s lips twitch, and the yellow is light, honey-toned. “I misspoke.”

Jaskier nods. “Well alright then. Let’s find a spot to camp in; I’m exhausted.”

He strides past Geralt, giving him a little pat on his shoulder, and Jaskier does not miss how his Wolf startles at that brief, casual contact, nor how he smiles at it when he thinks his bard can’t see. _No feelings my lovely ass_.

**+1.**

And then he _sings it_.

Well, actually, first he finishes writing it. Like many of his other creations, this one, even when Jaskier’s not working on it, still grows inside his head; occasionally, a set of rather excellent lyrics will come to him in a flash of inspiration, and he’ll jot them down quickly. But after the mountain— he’ll never _not_ be able to think of there being a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ that cursed incident— he sets aside his notebook (which has been filled with words upon words upon words about Geralt) and sticks to creating wordless, and _soulless_ , tunes on his lute.

It feels a bit like giving up, but what else is a broken-hearted bard to do?

Then the witcher apologizes, and he and Jaskier return to their old ways. Only now, he can see Geralt is really, actually, _trying_. So Jaskier picks up his pen, and leafs through his abandoned, dirt-and-ink-stained notebook. He remembers the still-unnamed ballad— and evidently, Geralt has not changed _that much_ for he still plays at not having emotions— so Jaskier begins writing again.

He feels happy.

It’s been almost a year since their reunion now, and he’s finally finished the ballad. Romantically, he calls it _The Ballad of The White Wolf’s Missing Heart_. But unlike with other ballads, the bard does not unveil it immediately after its completion— and he has no one to share the news with, either, because Geralt is off on a hunt and Jaskier won’t see him for another two weeks. He decides not to play this song until he and his Wolf are reunited.

Finally, he sees the witcher— looking a bit tired and roughed-up, but otherwise well— walking down the road. He beams, and even gets a small smile in return from Geralt. The bard goes ahead into the inn and makes an arrangement with the innkeeper to play for a few hours in exchange for a room, a bath, some ale, and two hot meals. Just as he’s finished settling the details, Geralt walks in. “Ah, just in time, Witcher. The innkeeper here has agreed to let us have a bath before my performance. I’ll let you go first.”

He grabs their room’s key from the counter and leads the witcher upstairs.

Jaskier waits until the end of the night, when everyone’s well and truly drunk, and all his other material’s been exhausted, to play the new ballad. “Ahem.” The bard stops strumming and is gratified by the hush which falls over the tavern. He deliberately avoids looking at Geralt. _Gods, my heart is thrumming already_.

“I thank you all for being such a wonderful audience. Truly, it has been a pleasure. And now, as a reward, I would like to debut a new song…” Jaskier pauses for dramatic effect. The witcher shuffles in his seat, and the bard can feel _all_ of Geralt’s attention suddenly being directed at him. “I call it _The Ballad of The White Wolf’s Missing Heart_.”

He clears his throat once more, ignores the curious, cool tilt of his witcher’s head, and begins to sing.


	2. The Ballad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the full version of Jaskier’s ballad.

Gather round, gather round, the tavern, the fire, the table,  
here, you curious folk, if you wish to discover  
the true nature behind a wolf’s secretive behavior:  
these animals feel hunger, these beasts feel pain,  
and they cry to the moon when sliced or cut or bruised—  
hiding and licking their hurts and resting their wounds  
just like the rest of us do. Wolves are alive too.

Alas, all folk see are their cruel claws and gnashing teeth,  
which so carefully hide the heart beneath. Even if wolves  
cannot speak, they feel no differently than humans do;  
they still seek a mate who is warm, a place to sleep,  
food for their pups to eat. A life is a life is a life,  
and our species live it not quite as distinctly  
as the old folks would make you think.

You may say, ‘Jaskier, you’re no hunter or trapper,  
why give credence to your tails?’ and I admit it’s true,  
I’m naught but a bard— yet I do know a wolf, one wolf,  
the grandest and noblest of them all: the White Wolf,  
the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. His heart’s the largest by far,  
and I will now share the story of how it was stolen long ago.

“Tell me, Muse, the tale of your first love,” I requested one day.  
“I’ve none,” he swiftly replied.  
“But how?” I then cried, flabbergasted—  
was this great hero not loved throughout the land? Perhaps our witcher  
was simply too busy for romance, excepting an evening or two.  
“It’s simple really,” he explained,  
“my heart’s been stolen. I tell it plain as day.”  
“Stolen?” I demanded, perplexed. “How could this be?”  
His yellow eyes grew somber, his expression sober.  
“Listen, Bard, and you shall see:

A long time ago, so long ago her name has faded,  
there was a terrible witch. A jealous, evil witch, very jaded.  
She saw my simple deeds and grew bitter and hateful.  
‘Why,’ she challenged, ‘do they revere him so and not me?’  
I asked for no praise, but still received it. She thought me  
puffed up, and vain. ‘I will curse him!’ she exclaimed.  
And alas, so she did:

‘May the White Wolf nevermore hear a kind word,  
or find a dry roof, or warm food,  
or fair reward for even his noblest deed—  
may all the people of this land hate,  
forevermore, this man, my greatest foe!’  
With this baleful utterance, thus the witch did curse me.  
And so, it became true. All throughout the land  
where once praise rang out, lies and gossip spread about.”

While sticks and stones may not bruise his bones,  
or even truly injure him, your words weigh heavier  
than any stone, and burn more hotly than the largest  
conflagration. Yet no mere stones, or tiny twigs, have assailed  
our hero. Sturdy chisels, and mighty wedges did they use,  
those thieves who stole the White Wolf’s grand heart.

“That is sorrowful indeed, my friend,” I exclaimed, much pained,  
“but this tale does not reveal what became of your heart!”  
He sighed, and said, “Very well, Bard.  
It was after this curse, this dreadful curse,  
that my real woes began.  
A group of bad men hatched a plan:  
‘If we stop the witcher,’ they said, ‘monsters will flourish,  
and we may make many a coin filling his shoes—  
though they be bigger than ours—  
but for this to happen, the White Wolf must perish!’

It was them, Bard, who did steal my heart,  
which has now been missing for many years.  
They crept near while I slept,  
determined to take the one thing I had left.  
My heart— already battered and bruised—  
I had locked away, now believing it had no real use.  
‘Be stone,’ I told it, ‘so their rocks will not cut.  
Stay sturdy as a tree, so their sticks will not gut.’  
Thus, numbed at my very core, I was unaware  
of when they plundered my beating treasure.  
Yet kill me this robbery did not, for I  
was too strong for their malfeasary.”

“Ah!” I moaned sadly. “Such woe. How, my friend,  
can we save you from this hellish curse?”

“Simply remember,” he responded plainly,  
“that we wolves feel hunger, we feel pain,  
and we cry to the moon when sliced or cut or bruised—  
hiding and licking our hurts and resting our wounds  
just like the rest of you do. Wolves are alive too.

And if some only see my cruel claws or gnashing teeth,  
which I so carefully hide my hurt beneath, remind them:  
though wolves do not speak, we act just as humans do;  
we still seek a mate who is warm, a place to sleep,  
food for our pups to eat. A life is a life is a life,  
and our species live it not quite as distinctly  
as the old folks would make you think.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I will tell folk to keep this in mind.”  
So, my dear audience, to break his awful curse  
and win back the White Wolf’s heart,  
speak no ill of the Witcher, harbor no hate in yourself,  
for all Geralt seeks to do is help as many people as possible,  
and perhaps, someday, recover his missing heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH _ACTUAL MUSIC_! Many thanks to CatsAreMyWorld, who created the musical accompaniment for my ballad! It's awesome and you should check it out ([the voice version](https://musescore.com/user/32170247/scores/6362999/s/ae6H53?share=copy_link) and [the Bb clarinet version](https://musescore.com/user/32170247/scores/6418441/s/DoyILa?share=copy_link)).

**Author's Note:**

> I had SO MUCH FUN writing this; hope you like it :). Also, 🤞🏻 the plot-line of this isn’t too confusing. 
> 
> Borrowed a bit of dialogue from the show at the beginning. Specifically, I used a transcription of episode 6, which you can find [here](https://transcripts.fandom.com/wiki/Rare_Species). 
> 
> **7/5/2020** : moved the actual ballad part to its own chapter because I thought it would look better; no new content.


End file.
